Fuck the daffodils

I wanted to write you a love poem
but my thoughts they come by you
and so I bring you instead
my loaded pen
my charged fountain
With you the muse
and me the scribe
Every time is poetry
every stroke a line
every climax a full stop
sperm like excited commas
So fuck the daffodils
screw the iambic pentameters
it’s you I need
My pen cradled in your thighs
like a swollen exclamation mark
the final draft in your traumatised eyes
and the stretched parchment of your face
as I write I love you on the walls of your womb

from "Love in the Vernacular"

You are You are You are

When others ask after you
I tell them how you’re fine
how you’re into crowded house
The car that you drive
And how you still hate your job
When what I really want to say is
How in summer
Your dress swings with your hips
How in your bed
You wear chanel to light the dark
How before
Passion puckers your breasts
How afterwards
Your cheeks are flushed like fever
And I want to tell them too
How you’re such a beautiful fuck
And how you’re fucking beautiful
Especially when you’ve just been fucked

from "Love in the Vernacular"

‘Blimey! Roll over Pablo Neruda . . . the whole thing amounts to a rather wonderful love letter, fluent, extravagant and real’
Andy Croft – Smokestack Books

‘erotic, passionate poems . . . bravely, gutsily and articulately written. I find them all arousing, as they should be . . . written out of the heart of passionate experience’
Patricia McCarthy – Agenda

‘a vibrant and original book – I admire the sheer gusto of the poems’
Laurance Lieberman – Poetry Editor University of Illinois Press

‘I think you might indeed be on to something here’
Tony Lacey – Penguin UK